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Hemingway, Gellhorn, and Tim Roth.

April 13, 2013

Now, I have to warn all of my readers: It’s 3AM and I’ve had quite a Friday night. I did not feel like I could sleep one wink without sharing with all about how the coldest woman in the history of ice queens was seduced twice in one week.

For the most part, I am not the type of woman that you would want to chat up in a bar, but I do have a couple of weaknesses. The two that I will expose for the purpose of this story are gingers and men with accents.

It can’t be any accent. It can’t be any man. Earlier this Friday I rode the train downtown, and a friend of mine and I decided to do a little bar hopping. The night was completely uneventful until the strangest older man appeared almost out of no where. He was from New Zealand.

He was wearing a pair of jeans in a black t-shirt, and when he walked up to the two of us I didn’t think he was the type of man to make anyone take notice. He announced to the two of us that he’d be buying drinks for us for the rest of the night. I glanced at him, immediately observing his jittery nature and his short stature and let out a little chuckle. This man was clearly drunk and out of his league.

He was a persistent little devil though, and he made several quick jokes which persuaded me to take notice; and after a few moments he decided to tell me what type of woman I was.

“You are gregarious in nature, you rarely listen, you control the conversation, and you wonder why things never go your way.”

I think that I listen quite well, but that is the first thought that would come to the mind of a person who rarely listens. He asked if I was upset, and I honestly told him that I wasn’t. I was intrigued. Things never seem to go my way, and perhaps this gentleman held the key to my success.

I inquired more about this gentleman’s opinion, but he would tell me nothing. I quickly realized that though he was probably right about me, this was just part of his game. His accent was winning me over, and moments later I realized that it didn’t matter at all what he was saying because it was all about how he was saying it.

This man was in his late forties, and anyone who had good sense would be able to tell this wasn’t his first time at the rodeo. He had dark brown hair and deep blue eyes, and his appearance and mannerism seriously resembled Tim Roth in the series “Lie to me“.

After a good 20 minutes of flirtation I realized that he had won this game, and I fancied him.

It really didn’t help that he told me I’d ‘lost the plot’ which is a phrase I’ve only heard used in British sitcoms and by Gordon Ramsey.

I’m in love with Gordon Ramsey, for the record.

This man ran his hands through my hair, and put his hand on the small of my back and told me that I was melting in his hands. I put my hand on the back of his neck and told him that the ONLY reason I was falling for him was his accent, and that I fully aware that he was entranced by me and would say anything that would grab my attention for another second.

We were at a stalemate. (PS I wasn’t really sure he was entranced, but liquid courage made me feel super confident.)

I am too chicken to sleep with strangers (STDs and pregnancy) so I walked away, but I definitely enjoyed my evening.

When I was younger I wanted to think that I was going to be the female Hemingway. I mean, I definitely have a short temper and I love the booze. I never really wanted to end up blowing my brains out with a shot gun, or having a cantankerous relationship with the love of my life.

I’ve already tried that kind of relationship, and I’ve realized that it’s not for me. I actually want someone to love me through and through. I’m mean enough to myself. I don’t need anyone who is going to pick at me.

I used to think that two writers, or idealistic artists could live very happily together. I wanted to spend my afternoons writing and musing. We could spend Sunday mornings together watching “Meet the press” and write together after brunch. The moments you can spend together without speaking would be the most enriching. Or at least that’s what I thought. Beyond the idea of taking trips to New Orleans, to eat pastries with our espresso and write after fulfilling naps, I realized that one of us would more than likely be more talented than the other. In this idealistic couple, one person would outshine the other. One person would drink themselves to death. One person would put her head in an oven. I decided that even a ginger with pretty eyes, my second weakness, wouldn’t be enough to convince me that it was okay to fall for another writer. I can’t be Hemingway, and I can’t stand to be a Martha.

I’m so full of it.

Everyone knows I love a good disaster. Besides, a bad decision makes a fantastic story.

I didn’t actually say much about the second seduction, but a girl has to have secrets. I’ll save that story for later.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. April 30, 2013 1:50 pm

    funny you should compare yourself to Gellhorn…
    “If I practised sex, out of moral conviction, that was one thing; but to enjoy it … seemed a defeat. I accompanied men and was accompanied in action, in the extrovert part of life; I plunged into that … but not sex; that seemed to be their delight and all I got was a pleasure of being wanted, I suppose, and the tenderness (not nearly enough) that a man gives when he is satisfied. I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents”

    • April 30, 2013 7:10 pm

      I actually think I said I was the female version of Hemingway, but I’m not sure since I was drunk when I wrote that…

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